


I Will Lift Up Mine Eyes.

by fawatson



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-16
Updated: 2009-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:58:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1627985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew comes to terms wth his sexuality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Lift Up Mine Eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for KindKit

 

 

 _Characters:_ Andrew Raynes, Tom

 _Mentioned:_ Dave, Laurie Odell

 _Disclaimer:_ I do not own these characters and make no profit from them.

 _Yuletide Request:_ Andrew coming to terms with his sexuality. Please don't split up Laurie and Ralph, though - I love them as a couple and I like to believe they'll stay together.

Author's Notes: (1) I don't really consider this a `crossover universe' story but I did borrow Mrs Kearsey from _North Face._ (2) The story's title is from Psalm 121. (3) The poem excerpt is from "I Am" by John Clare. (4) This story was influenced by prompt 1343 on the live journal community "lgbtfest": the Charioteer, Andrew Raynes, Learning to accept his sexuality leads to a crisis of faith (although I have reversed this). (5) A few people within the "maryrenaultfics" live journal community have asked questions about Andrew, his approach to relationships and his faith, all of which helped shape this story. (6) My biggest thanks go to Sarasusa who beta-read this story and provided me with advice about Quaker faith and sexuality. She made a big difference. This would have been truly dreadful without her.

* * * * *

He was breathing heavily as he came up the rise, and could feel the strain in his legs. The rucksack felt like a lead weight on his shoulders. Andrew stopped for a minute to enjoy the view and get his breath back. The vista before him was wonderful. It was easy to believe in God up here; the essence of his work was laid out to behold. These were different hills, but just so must George Fox have felt when he looked down from Pendle. Sure - completely in tune with life and the world. He swung his backpack down from his shoulders to rest on the ground, and sat down on a tree stump beside it. One of the pack's outer pockets held a flask of water. He took a small sip. It was almost empty now; he'd been walking most of the day. On his way back down, he'd refill it from the stream he'd passed.

The particular trail he'd chosen to climb wasn't terribly well known. In fact he'd eschewed any of the famous routes, wanting solitude. He'd heard about this one from an old man he'd met in the village the other day. Otherwise he'd never have known to come in this direction. But well-publicised or not, the walk had many beautiful places where one looked out over the rural landscape. Spread before him was a panorama of farms dotted with sheep, leading to cliffs and the sea beyond. He looked up. A hawk was circling overhead. At least he presumed it was a hawk; without binoculars it was hard to say. Some sort of predator though. Andrew shuddered. Predators.... Inevitably his mind circled back to all he'd seen - terrible images. Thank God the war was over. All the horrors that had come out - all that he had seen - all that he had done. And with that he'd come right back round to it again, and he put his head down in his hands and wept. For lost innocence, for lost certainty, for lost... he didn't know really. The desolation and emptiness just oozed from inside out and he cried until he could cry no more.

He'd had such confidence at one time. All through the war he'd worked hard, doing his best to counter its devastating effects. First in the ward, where the sight of men injured in battle had convinced him of the rectitude of his decision, then in London, where the devastation wrought by the Blitz had reinforced his views about violent conflict. Women and children were suffering, and all because the world had been unable to resolve its differences peaceably, as God intended. They had not chosen to go to war but were suffering its effects, hapless victims. He remembered saying that once as he went about his work; he'd been helping a mother to dig out her dead child from the wreckage of their home. She'd turned on him, shocking in her anger, and pushed him away. 

"I want none of _your_ help." 

She'd just screamed at him. He remembered standing and staring at her, hurt and dismayed at her forcefulness and passion. Dave had pulled him away, sent him to work in a different part of the street. At the time, he'd put it down to hysteria. Now he wondered. Had she understood something he had not? 

He'd been fine in France, working at an aid station, even Holland, though he hadn't been sleeping properly by then. He'd not been the only one struggling with interrupted nights. He'd been haunted by the wounded from both sides, and horrified by the effects of starvation on the local populace. His pity for their misery had known no bounds and he'd worked to the point of exhaustion every day, as had most of his group. It had happened once he'd got to Germany itself. Not all at once - gradually, insidiously. At first, just when he was tired, he found himself snapping at people. Dave had pulled him off all work for a week; he'd hated that, unable to settle to anything. It had been better for a little while, but not long. 

Still he'd felt sure he was in control, until that evening. He never remembered feeling such fury before. He'd intervened for all the right reasons; he just couldn't walk past that young woman being abused, but the next he knew he was nursing bruised and bleeding knuckles. The M.P.s had been very nice about it, sympathetic even, explaining anyone would feel that way; it was `perfectly natural', they'd said. He'd got the sense they thought it more natural than not fighting and he'd known himself damned by their regard.

He'd been sent back home. He remembered going to Meeting and sitting quietly. But for once peace was not to be found there. He'd read the testimony the London Meeting had issued in 1943: "peace requires reason, patience and love, never acquiescing in the ways of the oppressor, always ready to suffer with the oppressed." How far short of that ideal he had fallen. It was not the first time, he thought, remembering how he'd lashed out at Laurie's friend years before. The seeds of his downfall had been in him even back then.

For months he'd talked with other Friends, over and over, until he was sure they must be sick of him, though they'd never said so. But it hadn't helped. They said they too had doubts; they claimed they also struggled with anger. He couldn't really believe them. Oh, they wouldn't lie to him; he knew that. But they looked so certain, and they didn't seem to feel the intense rage that bubbled up inside, that had come out so disastrously that evening. It just wasn't the same. Perhaps it was because they had been in England all through the war. They hadn't seen what he'd seen. Yet his group had been with him, had lived what he'd lived, and they'd all been able to cope. He knew it was _his_ weakness, his failure. It shook him to his foundations. He felt very small. 

Andrew prayed for the strength to change and felt no stronger for it. That knowledge didn't help. Why had God forsaken him? He knew it remained his own struggle. God would not take the burden from him; that was not His way. But why did he not feel His love? God was said to love all sinners but he knew himself unloved. His faith should be his bedrock. It felt a hollow, fragile thing. No wonder God rejected him when he was no better than a vicious animal. Round and round in circles Andrew's brain had wandered. In the end he'd decided to come here and let his body wander instead. It had helped before, back at the beginning of the war when trying to decide whether or not to enlist. Maybe it would help again. 

Andrew dozed for while in the sun. A bee buzzing near his ear eventually woke him to the realisation the day was fast losing light, and he took up his pack again and made his way down the hillside. He stumbled a little as he came down the last of the path; it was hard to see properly in the dusk. Even coming back the most direct route, instead of making the circuitous ramble he'd chosen earlier, it was fully dark by the time he made it back to the village. 

The proprietor of the guesthouse greeted him with a relieved smile. 

"Your friend was getting worried you'd lost your way, but I did tell him you'd said you'd be missing dinner. I thought you'd be back soon, though, now the sun has gone down."

"Friend?" queried Andrew.

He's in the sitting room, waiting for you," she said. "Oh that's right," she added, "he did say you weren't expecting him. Nice that he was able to join you in the end, though. I always think holidays on your own are a bit lonely - so much nicer with a friend."

Andrew left his dusty boots in the hallway entrance with his rucksack propped against them. Then he made his way to the sitting room door. He paused a moment, his hand resting on the door handle. He really had wanted to be alone. Steeling himself, he took a deep breath, put a smile on his face, and opened the door.

Tom looked up as the door opened; he smiled as he saw it was Andrew and he came up out of his chair with his hand extended in greeting. Andrew was aware of feeling distinctly relieved; his own face relaxed into a real welcome. He'd always got on well with Tom.

"Hello, Mrs Kearsey said you were here." 

"Yes, I'm not _staying_ here. I have a room at the inn in the village," said Tom. "She was kind enough to give me a cup of tea while I waited. I just wanted to say hello, let you know I was around, and available if you wanted some companionship on your outings."

"Did Dave send you?"

"No, I came of my own accord. I didn't want you to feel you were alone in your search for clarity. I think, if he had been going to send anyone, it would not have been me," Tom added. "Dave doesn't completely approve of me, you know."

Andrew nodded. He did know, though he'd never understood. Tom had always worked just as hard as anybody else in the aid station and was consistently cheerful, funny and a good Friend. He had always really liked Tom, felt drawn to him from the first time they'd met in London. He knew, in part, this was because Tom had been the only other man close to his age in the house they'd shared, a few years older but not enough to place a barrier between them. Their shared work had also brought them together. Yet Dave had never seemed to approve fully of Tom. Andrew couldn't quite put his finger on how he had known this; Dave certainly had never said anything. It was just one of those things a body knew somehow. 

"Yes, I've always wondered," remarked Andrew. "Why is that?"

Tom cocked his head to one side, looking hard into Andrew's open and bewildered face. He poured himself another cup from the teapot, then took a second cup and poured for Andrew, buying time before he answered. Andrew waited patiently, accepting the milk and refusing sugar meantime. 

"He doesn't really approve of some choices I've made."

Andrew nodded. Yes, Dave could be that way, he supposed. Though he couldn't imagine quite what Tom could have done that Dave wouldn't approve of. He was such a quiet and sensible chap. Kept himself to himself, never drank too much, never in debt, always willing to help. It must be something from his past. Dave acknowledged he often struggled with forgiveness. 

"Right, I must go. As I said, I don't want to intrude, but I am here if you want to talk." 

Tom stood up as he said this. In one graceful but decisive movement he lifted his cup to his lips and drained it with one long swallow before bending down to leave cup and saucer on the coffee table. As he straightened again his eyes looked directly into Andrew's. 

"I may see you around."

"Look, wait," said Andrew, "Shall we do something together tomorrow? Go walking perhaps? And catch up. I haven't seen you for some time, after all."

"I'd like that," said Tom. "You decide where. I'll come by around nine o'clock, shall I?"

Andrew sat down again after Tom left, finishing his own cup of tea, and watching the shadows, pondering what impulse had made him suggest they walk together when he had come away to be alone. Finding no answers he trudged up to bed. 

Over the next few days they walked together, taking lesser known paths. The weather was kind to them. The majority of each day was fine, with only the occasional light shower, enabling them to walk far. It was a rare opportunity to talk at length, just the two of them, rambling for hours, exploring one another's minds. Always before, they had been too busy. It was exhilarating now, Andrew thought. They had such different ways of approaching life, yet, beneath it all, shared the same fundamental beliefs. 

One afternoon Andrew found himself kneeling silently, watching as Tom overturned a flat rock to expose an anthill for study. The colony scurried about, working diligently and cooperatively to protect their queen and larvae. Another day, they watched together as a fox leapt on a rabbit, killing it with one blow and devouring it swiftly. Tom had found the undergrowth they hid in, encouraging him to watch and wait patiently. 

"See?" he said, "they hunt from necessity, kill quickly and cleanly, only taking what they need to survive. 

"While man relishes violence," said Andrew. "How do you know so much about animals?" 

Tom smiled. "I read biology at Cambridge before the war. I graduated the summer before the war started. But you're wrong, you know. Not _all_ men relish violence, though my guess is we all are capable of it. I know _I_ am; I just know there is a better way, as do you. You can't make me believe you _relished_ what happened in Germany; if you had you wouldn't have been so troubled by it."

"I hadn't thought of it that way."

They had walked on and now they were resting side by side in the overhang of a cliff, eating their lunch in shelter from the mild sea breeze. The small cove they had chosen to walk to that day was deserted, save for them. Tom had spread his shirt on the beach and was stretched out, enjoying the warmth of midday. His head rested on his rucksack; his boots and socks lay discarded to one side. Andrew sat cross-legged beside him. 

"Are there any more sandwiches?" asked Tom. 

Andrew rummaged in his rucksack and came up with a large piece of flapjack. He broke it in two and handed one half to his friend, before he too stretched out. They munched in companionable silence, then dozed for an hour or so, recouping their energy for the walk back. Andrew woke first, roused by the raucous cry of gulls that were congregating over a school of pilchards. He sat up and looked to where Tom rested. His dark hair swept untidily down over his forehead. He looked as if he didn't have a care in the world. Lines from a half-remembered poem he had studied as a youth sprung to Andrew's mind: 

_There to abide with my creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept: Untroubling and untroubled where I lie; The grass below-above the vaulted sky._

This must have been what Clare meant. Tom smiled slightly as he dreamed. His chin twitched when a butterfly perched on it briefly. Andrew tried to swallow down his doubts. How had he found such peace? Why had God helped Tom and not him?

Tom woke to the sight of Andrew silhouetted by the sun. His hair glowed like a halo. Tom's throat worked hard. He'd known his feelings within six months of meeting Andrew, just as he'd known not to say anything. Not yet, a voice inside him had whispered. Wait. He'd lost himself in the work. Heaven knew there had been enough of it. 

Still there had been moments. After work, usually, when they'd been trying to relax, tired, guard down. Just sometimes, he'd been too tired to protect himself - or not tired enough; it all depended on how you thought of it, really. Times when he'd noticed anew the colour of Andrew's eyes, or the shadow of the hollow where his neck met his chin, and had to almost physically hold himself back. Times when he'd notice Dave watching him, awareness in his eyes, even while it wasn't in the eyes of the man he wanted. 

Was this the right time? There could be no better. Tom's hand reached upwards, drawn to the beauty of Andrew's hair. His fingers paused, resting gently on the soft forelock, then gently stroked it. Tom pushed up on one arm and sought Andrew's mouth. His lips found Andrew's passive - unresisting, but unresponsive. Gently he nuzzled the soft bottom lip, cajoling Andrew's mouth to open, pleading with his own lips and the tip of his tongue, supplicant and seducer in one. There was a brief moment when Andrew returned the kiss, when his lips parted and returned the gentle pressure, before he pulled back and stood up. 

Andrew's breath came hard as if he'd run a mile, instead of just been kissed. He felt so... alive. He looked down at Tom who had not moved, waiting for Andrew's next move. 

"Why did you do that?" Andrew asked. 

"I am sorry," said Tom. "Well no, I'm not really. I've wanted to do that for some time. But I am sorry if you want me to be - if you don't feel that way inclined. I'd hoped you might." 

Andrew felt stunned at Tom's quiet words. 

"I suppose I should have said something first - should have asked. But you looked so lovely in the sun, and I just -" There was a pause as neither said anything for a few moments. The tableau broke when Tom sat up fully and pulled his rucksack to him. He repacked and then pulled on his socks and boots. Andrew sank to the ground; his back was now against a rock and he watched Tom uneasily. 

"Am I the first man to have kissed you?" asked Tom.

"Like that - yes!" said Andrew. He spoke definitely, but even as he did so, he thought back to that time in Bridstow, all those years ago, when Laurie leaned across a table, leaving his thoughts and feelings in a whirl. Firmly he pushed the memory away. 

"Is my kiss so very offensive?"

Tom's tone was light, seemingly unconcerned. When it came, the response was quiet and hesitant, almost a whisper, clearly reluctant but compelled to honesty. 

"No, I liked it." There was another long pause before Andrew's spoke again. This time his voice was resolute. "But I mustn't, really."

"Why, if you liked it?" 

"Because..." there was another long pause before Andrew spoke, this time clearly anguished, as if the words were wrenched out of him. "It's wrong! God made woman for man - not man for man. It's - it's - !" He ran out of steam at this point, and sat looking at his hands, clearly unable to meet his friend's eyes. His shoulders were hunched, quite the contrast with his usual posture.

Tom's heart sank. He had hoped so hard. He gathered his thoughts to speak, to explain, but disappointment clogged his throat, and he turned away instead to pick up his pack.

"Then that's that. Come on, we'd best be getting back." 

They walked back as they had all the other afternoons. Usually Andrew chose their path in the morning, but in the afternoon Tom would lead. This was no different, with Tom two paces ahead, Andrew following, watching the confident stride of his friend. But it was all different now. That easy companionship Andrew had felt all week now eluded.

When they paused briefly to catch their breath at the top of a rise, Andrew asked, "Why me?"

Tom had been expecting the question. 

"I thought you might be interested, that's all. It seemed to me you might be like me. I've never seen you with a woman, in all the time I've known you." 

He was conscious it was a half-truth, unfair to Andrew. Yet he could not bring himself to expose his feelings further. It was safer this way, not saying what he truly felt, how much he felt for the man beside him. 

"Have you had many lovers?" asked Andrew. 

"Why do you ask?"

"It's just...." There was a long pause before Andrew spoke again; his words came in a rush, tumbling over one another in his haste to get out something which clearly troubled. 

"There was this man I knew once - back at the beginning of the war - in Bridstow. I liked him, and we talked a lot, but I never thought - I mean I didn't know - it never seemed to me.... Anyway, it turned out he was one and I found out when another man came and said some awful things. The suggestions he made! He was dreadful. Just seeing him, you knew it was all twisted and wrong and what he said made the friendship I'd thought I'd had all so sordid and...and.... It made me question what I am, but in the end I just couldn't be like that!"

Andrew ran out of steam at this stage and turned away, pointedly, his back to Tom as he stared fixedly into the trees. There was a long silence before Tom spoke again. His words came slowly; it was clear he was searching for the right ones, even as he spoke. He too didn't look at his companion, but gazed off into the distance, seeing a vision from another time.

"I've only ever had one lover. It was while I was at the university. He was a year behind me, but much more worldly - knew what everything was about. He wasn't a Friend. It hadn't seemed to matter when we were students together, but in the end it made all the difference. He was flying mad and joined up as soon as the war started, ditching his studies. We broke up over it. He couldn't see why I couldn't join, and I couldn't bear to see what he would turn into. He thought it all a bit of a lark, at first, going off to be a fighter pilot."

Tom looked around and encountered Andrew's questioning gaze. As he had reminisced, Andrew had shifted to look at him. 

"I know the type you mean. One does see them about, but I never cared for them much, and I never was part of their circle. It's always seemed to me they lost their way, and were making a lot of noise to hide the fact."

"What happened?" Andrew asked. "To your friend, I mean." 

"He died in 1940. Funny thing - he was posted over your way. Bridstow, I mean. It's one of the coincidences that struck me so when we first met, that you had been there at the same time he was. His sister wrote me, after he died - shot down over the Channel. She'd known about us before the war and she thought I'd want to know."

"So, he fought in the Battle of Britain." 

Tom nodded. "He wrote me just once - told me about seeing a German pilot go down in flames and how it could have been him. The end came pretty quickly after that. I don't think he had the heart to go on killing, even for a cause he believed in. He was a decent sort - the kind it would eat up inside, not that he'd ever say so. Crack a joke, that's what he'd do, that or get drunk."

He paused again, clearly thinking hard, then cleared his throat before he spoke. "You've some of the same quality about you."

"You mean `queer'," Andrew's voice had a jeering accusatory sound to it; he made it an ugly word. The sudden harsh sound of his own voice shocked him, but Tom responded to this cruelty without rancour. 

"No, I mean it eats you inside - what you've seen. Men go into battle and when they come home, some of them scream with nightmares. What makes you think what you've been dealing with is any different?"

"Oh," said Andrew, feeling deflated. He'd thought Tom had meant.... He supposed he should have known better.

"We all have our ghosts, Andrew," said Tom, "and our regrets. But I, for one, can never regret finding his love and holding it dear. My deepest regret is how we quarrelled when he joined the RAF. He didn't follow the same way as you or me, but he was a good man who lived according to his conscience. That is all any of us can do. He was as God made him, as I am - as I thought you might be." 

Even now he left open the possibility that Andrew's nature was not like his, not that he truly believed it. But he could not make the choice for Andrew; he had to find his own way.

"I do not reject any aspect of God's creation, and I do not think He rejects me for loving another man. He would not have made me that way, only to refuse me any path to happiness. Such cruelty is not God's, only man's."

Andrew felt the light of revelation break over him. 

"This is why Dave disapproves of you. He knows you are unnatural."

Tom nodded. There was nothing more for either to say and they moved off down the path again, steadily making their way back to the village. Sometimes on their way back they stopped for a pint in the pub at the edge of the village; this time they passed it in unspoken agreement not to prolong their day. They had reached the path Andrew needed to take back to his guesthouse and paused briefly. 

"I think I'd rather go alone tomorrow," Andrew said, "if you don't mind." 

Tom just looked at him, his face no different from the one he had always showed Andrew before this afternoon: pleasant, seemingly straightforward. Honest. Only now Andrew knew what lay beneath the exterior. 

"I am still your Friend, Andrew, in all the ways that word means. Please don't forget that. Remember, whatever else he believes, Dave knows that."

With that they parted for their respective lodgings. 

The next day dawned clear and bright. Andrew woke with the birds. Restless, he crept downstairs and raided the kitchen, leaving a note of explanation for Mrs Kearsey, before he set out. He took a route he had walked before, one that led into the countryside, rather than toward the coast. Lost in thought, he pushed himself hard, his steps coming faster and faster, until he was panting hard as he came up a small hill that overlooked Barlock. He could see the boarding house where he was staying at the edge of the village, and knew that round a corner, behind that stand of trees blocking his view, was the inn where Tom had taken a room. 

Tom.... He'd known him now for several years. Trusted him. And he'd been lying all that time. Andrew had felt whole again, as the week had progressed, once again part of the community, with a renewed sense of purpose. Now this.... He slipped off his rucksack and stretched the stiffness that had crept into his shoulders from carrying its weight. Yesterday Tom had done this for him; he had done it for Tom. It was just one of the myriad ways they had taken care of each other. His mind kept reviewing images from their walks together. From this vantage point he could see a hill they had climbed three days ago. He remembered Tom's infectious laugh, his warmth and acceptance as he had listened to Andrew's stumbling speech about his doubts, the way he had looked straight into Andrew's eyes as he declared himself, his face yesterday when they parted: eyes wary and tired. He had been enjoying himself and knew it was due in no little part to Tom. It was only now he thought about it that he realised the hurt in Tom's expression. Only now? A little voice inside him asked. Andrew stood, his eyes closed, feeling the slight movement of fresh air on his cheeks, hearing the bird calls and buzzing insects, feeling the stillness around him, listening...listening.... 

Peace was eluding him again. Damn Tom! You damn yourself, said that small voice, as a tear trickled down his face. You have not been honest - with him or with yourself. Tears came faster now as he remembered that time two years ago, when they had stayed up later than anyone else in their group. The fire in the grate had burned low and the cocoa had been finished long since, but they had been too involved in their conversation to want the night to end. Now he could put the right name to the look he had seen in Tom's eyes that night: love.

For the first time Andrew wondered. Was this how Laurie had felt? All those years ago? He remembered agonising over the letter he had written, hoping against hope Laurie would tell him he was wrong, that he wasn't that way - that that dreadful man had lied. Instead he'd had a letter, explaining there had been a lie, but saying he was moving in with his friend. He hadn't wanted Andrew to think Ralph could be like that. But he'd also said that awful little man had been Ralph's ex-lover trying to make trouble. He'd looked at the book Laurie had left him, but it had not convinced. He still shuddered at the thought: how could _anyone_ think that sort of man anything but.... It made such a mockery of what love should be. For Laurie to be caught up in _that_. Andrew had never replied to Laurie's letter, had let the friendship drop, not wanting to see Laurie change from the person he had liked into - well he wasn't sure quite what, but clearly not the same person. Surely _Tom_ would never...? No, no, he couldn't have said what he did yesterday about those men having lost their direction, if he was like that. Besides, he had known the man for five years now, known him, and...loved him. Tears were flooding Andrew's cheeks now.

That night in France, _he_ had felt... so close, unbelievably in tune with the man beside him. He'd never felt that way before. The way, if he was honest, he'd felt yesterday when Tom kissed him. Even his skin had felt vibrant and tingly. He'd forgotten that feeling. It had been lost in the hectic clamour and horror of the war - until this week. He'd been so troubled for so long; he'd thought himself lost because of his anger. Had it been because he turned away from love? He'd noticed how the married Friends replenished their spirits together, returning to work rejuvenated just by spending time with each other. He'd been all right in France, back when Tom had been there. But Tom had stayed in France, transferred to a different unit, just before they went to Holland. After that he had always been alone, even on that week off Dave had insisted he take. He had buried how much he'd _missed_ Tom. Was that where he had gone wrong? In not seeing Tom - in not _wanting_ to see what Tom offered? `Unnatural' Dave called it; had he been the unnatural one to run away from Tom's love? Was this what God intended? Andrew's tears slowed.

Far earlier than he had ever expected, Andrew found himself back at the village. He had set out intending to be gone all day. But he hadn't really walked far, even though his journey had been a long one, and it had not taken that much time for him to retrace his steps, particularly coming down, as he had been. He paused for a moment and looked back at the path he had just descended. It remained just a little hill, but then his search for truth had just been a little one, personal to him, not the striving of a great man seeking the way for an entire people. He noticed a spring half hidden in the lush undergrowth. How _had_ he missed this on the way up? Knowing it a true sign of God's blessing he bent, cupped his hands and drank from the clear cool water. Nothing had tasted so sweet all week. Andrew walked tall and proud; with luck, he would be in time to join Tom for breakfast. 

 


End file.
